Romancing the Duke (Castles Ever After #1)(81)

“It seemed harmless enough at the start. I never dreamed it would cause any trouble, and I told myself there wasn’t any reason you needed to know the truth. Except now . . . now there are other people here. And you want to pass me off as your lover, and—”

“I’m not passing you off,” he said. “You are my lover.”

She pressed her hands to her face. Curse her ridiculous vanity. Now his whole future was at risk.

He said, “I can’t believe this is happening. This . . . this . . . is your great, shameful confession. You tell me you’re not beautiful.” He laughed. “It’s just absurd.”

“It is?”

“Yes. That’s nothing. Do you want to hear a truly ugly secret, Izzy? Here’s mine. I killed my mother.”

Ransom could feel her recoil at his words, palpably shocked.

He didn’t blame her. They were ugly words. Never, ever pleasant to hear. They’d taken a toll on him, too.

“My mother labored for thirty-odd hours to bring me into the world, and died less than one hour afterward,” he said. “I killed her. That’s precisely what my father told me, in those exact words, from the time I was old enough to understand them.”

The memories were still so clear. Every time he’d cried, every time he’d shivered, every time he’d stumbled and wanted a bit of cosseting. His father would haul him by the collar, heels dragging along the marble floors, and push him to the floor before the floor-length portrait of his mother.

Stop that sniveling, boy. She can’t wipe your tears now, can she? You killed her.

God, she was beautiful in that portrait. Golden hair, blue eyes, pale blue gown. An angel. He used to pray to her. Little blasphemous petitions for miracles, forgiveness, playthings . . . any signs that she could hear.

But she didn’t hear. She was gone.

He’d never prayed to anything since.

“All the servants,” he said, “nursemaids, housekeeper, tutors . . . they were sternly instructed to show me no affection. No hugs, no kisses, no nurturing or comfort. Because those were things my mother would have given me, and I didn’t deserve them. He blamed me for her death.”

He felt the breath sigh out of her. “Ransom, that’s just terrible.”

“It is,” he agreed.

“It was so wrong of him to treat you that way.”

“It was. He was a cruel, disgusting bastard. Let’s just say, there weren’t many bedtime stories.”

“I . . . It’s meaningless to say it, but I’m so very sorry.”

He pressed his brow to hers. “It’s not meaningless at all. It means everything. And if later, you want to take me to bed and stroke my hair for days, I’ll take it gladly.” He pulled back, putting distance between them. “But that’s later. Right now, we’re discussing you. Not-beautiful you.

“I know women, Izzy. I’ve known far too many women.” He’d spent years searching for that physical comfort he’d been denied, always shying away from any deeper connection. “And I’ve known, ever since that first afternoon, that you were unlike anyone who’d come before. I’m glad of it. And if men never paid you attention, I’m glad of that, too, selfish cad that I am. Otherwise, you’d be with some other man instead of here with me.

“But no matter how tightly I hold you, no matter how deeply I sink inside you—I’ve felt there’s always some small part of you I can’t reach. Something you’ve been holding back. Your heart, I assumed. Oh, I wanted it. I want all of you. But I couldn’t bring myself to ask for something I so clearly didn’t deserve.”

He felt her draw breath to object, but he cut her off before she could try.

“And it’s nothing to do with my birth or my childhood. I’m old enough now to recognize my father’s treatment for the senseless cruelty it was. But it’s everything since. You think a few features scattered on your face make you plain? I am ugly to the core. All England knows it. And after reading through my papers, you must know it. You sifted through a mountain of my misdeeds. Of course you’d build a wall around your heart. You’re a clever girl. How could you love this? How could anyone?”

“Ransom.” Her voice wavered.

“And now I learn that this . . . this . . . is what you’ve been guarding. This is the reason for that reluctance. You don’t feel pretty enough. For a blind man. Christ, Izzy. And I thought I was shallow.”

The words came out more harshly than he intended. So he followed them with kisses. Tender, soothing kisses to her cheek, her neck, the pale, arousing curve of her shoulder . . .

Bless this woman and her silly, all-too-human vanity. He might never know how to be the man she deserved, but this?

This, he knew how to remedy.

“Izzy,” he moaned, pressing his body to hers, “you make me wild with wanting you. You can’t imagine.” He started pulling up her skirts.

She gasped. “What are you doing?”

“Just what it seems like.”

“We can’t. The solicitors. They’re just downstairs, waiting.”

“This is more important.”

“Tupping me in the corridor is more important than saving your title?”

He held very still. Then he kissed her lips. “Yes.”